Grendel’s attacks did not end after the first assault upon Heorot. Some hatreds are too old and run far too deep to be satisfied by a single night of bloodshed and terror. Night after night he returned, his hatred and loathing for the Danes driving him from his cave again and again, intent that the noise of Hrothgar’s hall would be silenced once and for all. There would be no more deafening, painful nights. There would be no more merrymaking. And as winter closed ever tighter about the land, until the snow had gone to an icy crust and the warm sun was only a dim memory of summers that might never come again, Hrothgar’s great gift to his people became a haunted, fearful place. But Grendel did not restrict his attacks to the hall alone, taking young and old alike, men and women and children, the weak and the strong, wherever he might come upon them. He held Heorot, coming and going as pleased him and making it the most prized trophy in his lonely war, but he also roamed the old woods and the moors, the farms and homesteads, and took all those who crossed his path.

And word spread, in the songs of skalds, in the whispered tales told by travelers and traders, of the lurking doom that had fallen upon Hrothgar’s kingdom.

On a freezing morning when the frost might as well be steel and the sun has not yet seen fit to show itself, the king lies with his queen on soft pallets of straw bound with woolen cloth and deer hide. Hrothgar opens his eyes, uncertain at first what has awakened him, but then he sees Unferth standing beside the bed.

“My lord?” Unferth asks, whispering so as not to disturb Lady Wealthow. “My lord, it has happened again.”

And Hrothgar would shut his eyes and fight his way back down to sleep, back to dreams of warm sunlight and nights without monsters, but Unferth would still be there when he opened them again. He dresses quickly and as quietly as he might, managing not to wake his wife, and then he follows Unferth to Heorot. Soon, he is standing in the cold with Unferth and Wulfgar and a number of thanes outside the mead-hall doors, the hall’s new doors, reinforced with wide iron bands and easily twice as thick as those that Grendel burst asunder.

“How many this time?” asks Hrothgar, his breath fogging like smoke.

Unferth takes a deep breath and swallows before he replies. “In truth, I could not say. The bodies were not whole. Five. Ten, perhaps. It was Nykvest’s daughter’s wedding feast.”

“Grendel’s coming more frequently,” Hrothgar sighs and tugs at his beard. “Why does not this demon simply make my hall his home and save himself the trouble of stalking back and forth each night across the moorlands?”

Hrothgar looks down and sees the red-pink stain leaking from beneath the door.

“The new door hasn’t even been touched,” he says, and angrily smacks the wood hard with one open palm.

“Nay,” Unferth replies. “The Grendel devil obviously came and went through the skorsten.” And he points up at the chimney vent in the roof of Heorot Hall. Hrothgar sees the blood right away, spattered across the thatched roof, then on the snow below the eaves, dappling the monster’s splayed footprints. The trail leads away across the compound grounds and vanishes in the mist.

Hrothgar takes a deep breath and puffs out more steam, then rubs at his bleary eyes. “When I was young I killed a dragon, in the Northern Moors,” he says, and Unferth hears a hint of sadness or regret in the king’s voice. “But now I am an old man, Unferth. Too old for demon slaying. We need a hero, a cunning young hero, to rid us of this curse upon our hall.”

“I wish you had a son, my lord,” Wulfgar says, and takes a step back from the door and the spreading bloodstain on the threshold. His boots crunch loudly on the frozen ground.

Hrothgar grunts and glares at him. “You can wish in one hand, Wulfgar, and shit into the other—see which fills up first.”

Hrothgar turns his back on the door, on Heorot and this latest butchery, and faces the small group of people that has gathered outside the hall.

“Men,” he says, “build another pyre. There’s dry wood behind the stables. Burn the dead. And then close this hall. Seal the doors and windows. And by the king’s order, there shall be no further music, singing, or merrymaking of any kind.” He takes another gulp of the frigid air and turns away. “This place reeks of death,” he murmurs, then shuffles off through the snow, heading back toward his bed and sleeping Wealthow. After a moment, Unferth and Wulfgar follow him and have soon caught up.

“The scops are singing the shame of Heorot,” Hrothgar says, speaking softly and keeping his eyes on the snow at his feet. “As far south as the middle sea, as far north as the ice-lands. Our cows no longer calf, our fields lie fallow, and the very fish flee from our nets, knowing that we are cursed. I have let it be known that I will give half the gold in my kingdom to any man who can rid us of Grendel.”

Unferth glances at Wulfgar, then back to Hrothgar.

“My king,” he says. “For deliverance our people sacrifice goats and sheep to Odin and Heimdall. With your permission, might we also pray to the new Roman god, Christ Jesus? Maybe…maybe he can lift this affliction.”

“You may pray as it best pleases you, son of Ecglaf. But know you this. The gods will not do for us that we will not do for ourselves. No, Unferth. We need a man to do this thing, a hero.”

“But surely,” persists Unferth, “praying cannot hurt.”

“Yes, well, that which cannot hurt also cannot help us. Where was Odin Hel-binder—or this Christ Jesus of the Romans—when the demon took poor Nykvest’s daughter? Answer that question or bother me no more with this pointless talk of prayers and sacrifices and new gods.”

“Yes, my liege,” Unferth replies, then follows Hrothgar and his herald across the snow.

The storm-lashed Jótlandshaf heaves and rages around the tiny, dragon-prowed ship as though all the nine daughters of the sea giant Ægir have been given the task this day of building a new range of mountains from mere salt water. Towering waves lift the vessel until its mast might almost scrape the low-slung belly of the sky, only to let go and send it plunging down, down, down into troughs so deep the coils of the World Serpent cannot possibly lie very far below the hull. Overhead are banks of clouds as black as pitch, spilling blinding sheets of rain and lightning, and deafening thunder to rend a man’s soul wide. There are fourteen thanes at the oars, their backs aching as they strain and struggle against the storm, their hands cold and bloodied and pierced with splinters.

A fifteenth man stands braced against the oaken mast, and the wild wind tugs at his cape of heavy black wool and animal skins, and the icy rain stings his face. The ship lurches forward, then back, teetering on the crest of a wave, and he almost loses his footing. He squints into the sheeting rain, unable to turn loose of the mast to shield his eyes, searching the gray blur where the horizon ought to be. But the storm has stolen it away, has sewn sea to sky and sky to sea. The ship lurches violently forward once more and begins racing down the face of the wave. When it’s finally level again, one of the thanes leaves his place at the oars and makes his way slowly along the slippery deck to stand with the man leaning against the mast.

“Can you see the coast?” he asks, shouting to be heard above the din of the storm. “Do you see the Danes’ guide-fire?”

The ship rolls suddenly to port, but rights itself before the sea can rush in and swamp the craft.

“I see nothing, Wiglaf! Unless you count the wind and rain!”